


i am not there (i did not die)

by droppingdroplets



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bittersweet, Hurt but trying to find comfort, They're trying but for different things in different ways
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:49:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27921046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/droppingdroplets/pseuds/droppingdroplets
Summary: Wilbur's an empty grave everyone is too afraid of filling. He's trying his best to keep alive what others are determined to bury.Or: conversations between brothers, in which Tommy's trying to keep himself alive, and Technoblade has never needed to worry about himself.
Relationships: Technoblade & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 2
Kudos: 137





	i am not there (i did not die)

Wilbur is a dead man walking. His own grave, his own man-made crater – splinters of a lost life and remnants of a novel land now watching his little brother pull apart at the seams. Tommy’s been tugging at his hair for minutes on end before wrapping his arms around himself in a falsity of comfort and protection. It doesn’t last long, the embrace broken as his hands resume their aggressive favour of his hair, a cycle of offence and defence with no opponents in sight. Just a boy with one life left, and a man caught in his final breath.

His communicator hums with – barely – more life, a whisper sat at the back of his head.

> _Technoblade: Send me the coordinates. Don’t say this outloud._

They’re not in familiar territory any more. Wilbur isn’t sure they’re in territory at all, the damp ground of the surrounding wilderness leaving deep footprints where Tommy paces. Everything here is newly touched, not even a landmark claimed by their eyes to keep them from wandering too far.

He watches, from afar, as his brother’s indignation burns through him like a wildfire. It’s not very effective against the rain, but he rises up against the downpour anyway, disorientated with every moment he’s left unanswered except for his own voice. When he turns, that stricken look is still on his face. Like he’s been struck by lightning. Like he’s still fighting the urge to bolt.

Tommy catches sight of him. Wilbur hasn’t moved far, just high enough to marvel at the flowers dotting the hillside. High enough that he can keep an eye on Tommy; high enough that Tommy can’t lose sight of him.

They can still hear each other, of course, their communicators close enough to carry their voices clearly even through the caves and between the trees, but he’s listening to himself as much as he’s listening to his brother. His thoughts are scattered little things _– oh, even the rain passes through me – why wouldn’t you want to talk to Technoblade, Tommy? – what colour terracotta should we use? –_ but he does his best to catch them before they’re gone. He has no pen and paper to pin them down, no pathways to retrace, no people to pester, but he also has no plans to lose his brother in the midst of everything.

Not that there’s much of something to begin with. Wilbur doesn’t think that’s much of a bad thing; it’s all the more room to work with.

Tommy hasn’t left much space for himself, and he’s taken up what little he has quickly. His feet skitter across the ground, indecisive, but his steps are small and he stops to pivot every so often, as if he’ll turn around and find something else behind him. His hands wave and flutter, but there’s a boundary he won’t cross, a bubble he can’t bring himself to burst. He doesn’t notice the dirt under his nails, building in spite of the rain’s attempts to wash it away. He pulls at his hair and tries to smooth the furrow between his brows; Wilbur doesn’t envy the experience of a headache.

Wilbur will have to make room, then. There’s space for three people, for four people (for more people, but he likes the sound of four).

Space for an argument, for a counter to the wallowing happening ahead of him.

“Alright, I’m coming back Wilbur.”

Tommy doesn’t have much to come back to; just what’s left of Wilbur.

What’s left of Wilbur is unwanted; memories an open wound that refuse to scar, picked at restlessly, the blood still fresh. Tommy wants to pretend otherwise, but Wilbur can see the hurt of today beginning to scab, even if he can’t comprehend it beyond the periphery of his awareness.

What’s left of Wilbur includes good memories of Technoblade. What’s left of Tommy includes bad ones.

“Do not, do not, do not -”

“Why shouldn’t I, Tommy?”

“He’s a wrong’un! He’s the pinnacle of a wrong’un - He’s gonna come and he’s gonna kill us, he’s gonna bully us!”

Wilbur's already read the message out-loud. His communicator hums with Techno and Tommy trying to speak over each other; talking to him as though it's a battle to be won. He tunes them out while he thinks about it. He's already disregarded part of what Techno wants; he doesn't understand what Tommy wants at all.

Tommy's rarely been one to dictate his behaviour anyway.

<>

  
  


The plains show nothing for miles – no craters, no towers, just the pendulum of time stretched out across the skies. The rain has started to clear up, and with it Tommy’s swung his shock aside to bare his teeth at Techno. Elements of it are familiar: the low laughter, the clumsy fighting, the world their own to live in. Elements of it aren’t at all: the choked breaths, the bitter defence, the distance between them.

Wilbur remembers sparring with Techno. Wilbur also remembers bullying Tommy, a more one-sided affair. He doesn’t remember it being quite like this.

He can’t place what’s different about it.

When he raises his hands to the sky there’s shadows on the tips of his fingers; stains of ink or soot. Wilbur can’t ponder it for long without losing track of what he’s doing, a paradoxical puzzle that keeps him occupied until Tommy comes and sits down next to him, “Do you really think we should be building our camp here?”

“Yes.” Wilbur says; a query of where else they’d build it. Of why.

“It’s just,” Tommy drums his fingers against his thigh. When he huffs, the cavern dirt and stone dusting his hair dying his hair darker looks almost pink in what little light has survived the rainfall. “Since you gave our coordinates to Technoblade, he _could_ come and kill us in our sleep. Kill me, I mean, since I don’t think – you can’t die again, can you?”

“I’m already dead,” Wilbur shrugs.

“Right.” Tommy says, holding onto that thought a moment longer before letting it go. “Right. Well, you can imagine how that’s a bit of a problem, can’t you? A pretty big problem, if you’d ask me. Not the being too dead to be killed, I mean -”

Wilbur shakes his head, “No.” He says, “I don’t think I do, actually.”

Tommy huffs again, posture drooping. He’s quick to pick himself back up, though he doesn’t straighten fully, glancing over his shoulder. “I _just_ said he could come when we’re sleeping. Anytime he wants, actually, and he’ll come and show off all his shit, and there’ll be nothing we can do about it -”

Wilbur can almost hear the rapid-fire pulse conducting the pace of Tommy’s words; he can see it, as the boy almost bruises his skin before giving up the motion to break it with his nails instead. Wilbur leans over – Tommy steels himself, neither shivering from his brother’s touch or flinching from the sudden movement – and fits a braid of twisted stems between his fingers.

Tommy fortifies himself with a deep breath, loosening his hand to let the petals fall into his palm. Wilbur waits, one moment, then two, then pulls away.

He half-expects Tommy to crush it. Instead he cradles it, a sour expression on his face.

“Are you going to burn it too?”

“No.” Tommy says, still deciding. He grinds his teeth together until the next words come out jagged and sharp, “It’ll be nice to have the reminder, actually.”

Wilbur’s brows furrow. “Reminder for what?”

“For why I can’t afford to just die out here.” Tommy snaps. The resulting silence makes him squirm, and he attacks it with vehemence. “Nobody’ll even know if I do, I’d be alone and – You remember dying, right, Wil? _I_ remember you d y ing , I don’t get to forget the terrible things that’s been done like _you_ have.”

Wilbur meets a gaze of daggers, but they miss him entirely as Tommy looks down, watching his fingers shield the flower from sight. He traces the edge of the petals with the pad of his thumb. Wilbur tries to imagine how it feels, to gather the comfort pulled from so small a motion.

“I’m pretty sure that’s a good thing. If I forget the fucked up things I’ve done – if I forget the fucked up things _you’ve_ done… I’m not gonna forget _this_ , Wil, I wish it’d never happened but it did and Techno may have been right about the exile, but I’ll be damned if he’s not fucking wrong about one thing. I’m not a hero. And I’m not going to die as one either. And I’m not a villain – and _if_ I die, it’ll just be as me.”

Tommy lifts his arm with great effort, as though the flower weighs more than the world. He presses his face in the crook of his elbow, listening to his – and only his – breaths. Wilbur hums, a mindless tune as he tries to recall a song to comfort his brother.

He can’t think of one.

“I haven’t given up so much of my life,” Tommy assures himself, lowering his arm to unveil a resolute ember. “Just to lose it here for nothing.”

Silence rings. Only for a moment – the toll is too much on them both – before Tommy stands, making a fuss of his clothes and scraps of armour as though they’re enough.

“Anyways,” Tommy says. “I’m gonna go make sure that bastard actually leaves. If camp’s staying here, we should probably… I don’t know, do _something_.”

“I'll keep watch,” Wilbur says softly. His gaze lifts up; Tommy’s lowers down. “There’ll be more stars out, won’t there? Without all the lights.”

Tommy nods, though he hesitates to leave his answer at that. He does though, turning to walk away, unbalanced with the weight of the world collapsing around him. The air is still, the light is fading. It’s easy to see his brother walk off with purpose. Both of them.

Wilbur watches him walk away, and come back. Contrasted by shadows, Tommy curls up with only a blanket of grass, blending a little too easily into the barren moment. He fits his back against a wall, trying to squeeze himself into a space he doesn’t belong in, holding himself together in a land lacking in support.

Wilbur doesn’t look away.

<>

  
  


“I think I might forget some of this,” Wilbur confesses. The ground shifts under his feet, burying the base of the stump they’d carried over earlier. He sits on it alone, save for a rustle of fabric next to him that’s keeping to the treeline. “You won’t, will you?”

“I won’t.” Techno promises, back pressed against the bark. He shifts the fur collar of his cloak, letting his braid spill to its full length. By nightfall it’s a mess of overflowing waves, the golden clasped rope holding it together barely visible, messier still from the earlier talk with Tommy. Wilbur’s hands weigh heavy with memories, tracing familiar patterns into empty air – it’s the only thing he’s got, with his worry that his knowledge of it will fade if his hands pass through. He’d like to commit this to memory first.

Instead, he leans forward to inspect the new garments, “You’re wearing blue,” He notes, delighted. “It looks good.”

“Me or the blue?” Techno asks, with a wry twitch of his lips. Wilbur’s glad to see him happy, even just a ghost of it. “Speaking of, you think I should save some of those that you gave me for Phil?”

“I can give you more to take to him, if you want,” Wilbur says proudly, then pauses. He locks his hands together, thoughtful. “Do you think Phil could come and take us back?”

“He _could_ ,” Techno shrugs, as though dumping that at their feet will do any good. He shuffles his feet against the ground, admiring the dirt and burying the question with it. “Not that he would. Not without a _very_ good reason.”

“He wants to go back,” Wilbur says.

“He can’t.” Techno says. “If he does, it’ll just be like when you came back; it won’t be the same. It’ll never be the same. And like us is the last thing he wants right now.”

“Oh.”

Techno laughs, “And I don’t think Phil wants to walk another one of us to our deaths, so… He might not want to be stuck here, but he doesn’t want to die here more than that.”

“That’s okay,” Wilbur says, patting the log, swinging his legs to kick at his brother’s feet, who scoffs and kicks back. “We’ll just plant new roots here. We’ll figure something out.”

They’re just a sum of a whole shadow, subjects of the night reigning overhead. Things are missing: Tommy’s sleeping too lightly to snore, Techno’s braced for a one-sided exit, and Wilbur keeps looking for the shelter of a man who’s not there.

“I should be figuring out my way back – might as well get the head-start now – I’ve more than overstayed my welcome.”

“Is it going to be a long journey?” Wilbur asks. “Here and back, I mean.”

“Eh.” Techno says. “Getting back’s not by a long short – it’ll be even shorter once the sun’s high enough to take care of the mobs. I know where everything is now, it won’t be a problem.”

Wilbur hums, looking up for traces of pink in the sky. “Can I send you a message, next time?”

“Sure.” Techno says. “It’s not as if there’s anything really stopping you.”

A gleeful nod, “You can’t stop me.”

“I can always just stop myself from coming.”

“Phil would be upset if you didn’t come,” Wilbur says, watching Techno’s composure fissure. “And Tommy -”

“Absolutely not Tommy.”

“- and me.” Wilbur adds. He wonders, half-heartedly, if he’d even be able to remember asking. If he was a question waiting an answer – or an answer that nobody wants to question any more. He looks to the stars retreating into the dawn, and finds nothing amongst them.

The ground shifts. Neither of them look back at each other, though Techno only gets one step before Wilbur interrupts him, “We’re still family, right?”

“Unfortunately.” Techno says carefully, like he has to tread lightly.

Wilbur does no such thing, “Do you think we can be friends again too?”

He closes his eyes and basks in the silence. Remembers the whisper of footsteps; a hiss in the wind. A rhythm falls from his fingertips, a false-pulse for the fallen log, and wonders how long Techno will have to walk until the horizon misses him.

“Maybe,” Techno concedes. His footsteps pick up, fading into the distance, “Guess we’ll have to see, won’t we?”

<>

  
  


While Tommy sleeps, Wilbur does his best to conduct his memories into a semblance of melody, sounding out a song neither of them have record of.

If Tommy forgets home, Wilbur will just have to remind him of it.

**Author's Note:**

> I have almost certainly taken artistic liberties with canon for the sake of found family,, thank you for reading this self-indulgent mess.


End file.
